


kintsugi

by dashwood



Series: variations on a theme [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Art References, Berlin is blinded, Berlin is the personification of, Episode Tag: 48 Meters Underground, M/M, Swearing, Tokyo and Berlin aren’t allowed on playdates anymore, depictions of violence, ‘When I get sick I stop being sick and be awesome instead’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24180109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “Have you ever heard ofkintsugi, Stockholm?” Berlin says, rolling the word around his tongue as if it’s something sacrosanct, a religious experience. “It’s not so much a form of art as a philosophy. The Japanese believe in embracing flaws and imperfections. Instead of covering them up like a shameful secret, they highlight the chinks by filling them with powdered gold.”“I don’t think we have enough gold to cover all your flaws.”Or: 48 Meters Underground, but it's Berlin who is blinded
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: variations on a theme [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744213
Comments: 32
Kudos: 167





	kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a stand-alone; it's a variation on the first fic in this series. So if you'd rather read about Palermo getting hurt and Berlin caring for him, go and take a look at _the sound of darkness_.

“Do you see the light?” 

Berlin chuckles at the frenzied tone of Tokyo’s voice. Her panic is palpable, so visceral he can taste it on his tongue – its sour notes lingering in the air, thickening it into a miasmal sheen. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to see the look on her face. To match the strained silence to the fear in her eyes. 

Tokyo hisses, like a miffed kitten, and a second later her hands are on his face, clawing and scratching as the tries to pry his eyes open, her fingernails turning into crowbars. Her wrists are pressing down on his cheekbones, driving the shards further into his skin and forcing violent blooms of pain to blossom across his face. 

There’s no finesse to her actions. Tokyo lacks the grace of an artist, the physical sensitivity required for a delicate job such as this. It doesn’t seem to occur to her that his eyes are his most prized possession. Or maybe she simply doesn’t care. Either way, she doesn’t appear to have any qualms about damaging his eyes further, and Berlin fears that she’ll callously – eagerly! – mangle them even more. Turn them into glass marbles, hollow and empty. Dead. 

Growling low in his throat, Berlin bats her hands away. He can feel the anger rising up inside of him, a hot-red current coursing through his veins, fueled by her blatant ignorance. Her disgusting sloppiness. 

“What the fuck, Berlin?! I’m just trying to help you!” 

“You want to help me?” He laughs. Sharpens his words until they’re razor poised on the tip of his tongue. “Remind me, Tokyo. Didn’t your last partner die?” 

There’s a single beat of silence right before he is yanked off the stretcher by the collar of his jumpsuit. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Tokyo snarls, her breath hot against his lips. “You really think it’s a good idea to say shit like that to the person who’s trying to help you? I could shoot you in the fucking face right now and you wouldn’t even be able to see it coming. So do us all a favor and shut the fuck up, Berlin.” 

And even though the pain is crippling, Berlin opens his eyes. He’s immediately hit by a wave of disappointment when he realizes that the damage is even worse than he expected. He can’t see anything save for a blur of red and black and white. Within the blink of an eye, his whole world has turned into a work of modern art, made up of ragged lines and muddy edges. 

It doesn’t matter though. Nothing has changed. Tokyo needs to understand – and understand _fast_ – that he is still in charge. He won’t have his command challenged – even if he’s lying in a pool of his own blood. 

“You seem to forget,” Berlin drawls, the words dripping with derision, “that I don’t need to be able to see to put you in your place.” 

He strikes as fast as a snake. His hand shoots up to grasp Tokyo’s throat, fingers digging into the exposed skin beneath her jaw until she sputters and gasps for air. 

Ah, how melodious. 

“Let her go!” 

Stockholm’s voice trembles, even though Berlin is certain that she’s doing her best to suppress it. To assume an air of authority. It must be her instincts taking over: the stern mother trying to reign in a pair of unruly children. Will she send him to bed without dinner, Berlin wonders. Take away his favorite toy? 

With a sigh, Berlin loosens his grasp on Tokyo’s throat, allowing her to wrench herself free. As expected, he doesn’t feel an ounce of regret as he listens to her choked coughs. It’s an irritating background noise, nothing more. The buzz of a fly – a triviality. 

“Go and get me someone who actually knows how to keep their partner alive,” he says, suddenly feeling tired. Drained. What’s the point of this little game of cat-and-mouse if he can’t even appreciate the look of fear on Tokyo’s face? The terror in her eyes? 

His wallowing is interrupted by a sudden bang – the door bursting open. Berlin can hear heavy footsteps approaching fast before they come to an abrupt halt a few meters away from him. A choked gasp, small and pitiful.

“Is he…?” 

Oh, the things Palermo’s voice does to him! It’s an oasis in the desert, a full course meal placed in front of a starving man. It’s a gift, a blessing, a much-needed reprieve from the pain. Even if – or maybe _especially when_ – Palermo sounds so shaken. As though the mere thought of losing Berlin _terrifies_ him. An unthinkable anathema. 

Berlin must look a fright if Palermo’s reaction is any indication. Gandia must have turned him into a vile thing that’s been dragged through the gutter by his face, blood coating his eyes and cheeks in a violent splatter of red. 

Mustering a smile, he tilts his head in Palermo’s direction. There’s a sharp intake of breath that makes Berlin’s chest clench in a rare bout of sympathy. It must have distressed Palermo to see him like this – all bloodied-up. The poor thing. 

He holds out his hand, beckoning Palermo closer. An emperor seeking the comfort of his most deserving disciple, his trusted companion. His soulmate. 

Palermo doesn’t disappoint him. He is by his side in an instant, warm fingers wrapping around his hand and cradling it against his chest. His grip is tight, _possessive_. As if he is the only thing standing between Berlin and Death, willing to fight tooth and nail to keep him alive. To keep him save. 

_Brave Martín_ , Berlin thinks. The cleverest little thing he’s ever known.

“Thank you for your help, Tokyo. You can go now,” Berlin says, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure Palermo will do a satisfactory job at salvaging what’s left of my eyes.” 

His words are almost drowned out by the racket Tokyo creates when she stomps out of the room. Berlin grimaces. How undignified of her, throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of a robbery. 

“What the fuck happened?” 

Berlin heaves a long-suffering sigh, acting as if the whole incident is nothing but a minor inconvenience rather than a momentous turning point, the accursed end of his carefree existence. 

“Gandia.” 

“I told you we should kill him,” Palermo hisses. Irritation colors his words and thickens his accent. “That fucker is going to ruin the plan.” 

“Ah, but you heard what the Professor said,” Berlin drawls in a teasing tone. “No killing the hostages. Isn’t that right, Stockholm?” 

“Fuck Sergio,” Palermo snaps. “If he wants to lock himself into the fucking Bank of Spain with that _hijo de puta_ , then how about he comes down here and does it himself.” 

His outburst is accompanied by the harsh clangor of metal. It sounds angry – almost violent – and Berlin is beginning to fear that Palermo might be too emotional to handle the clean-up. That he’ll allow his anger to get the best of him. That he’ll finish the abysmal job Tokyo started. 

But when he eventually feels Palermo’s hands on his face, his touch is surprisingly gentle. It’s graceful and delicate – everything that was lacking from Tokyo’s talons. Not an artist’s touch per se, but mindful nonetheless. 

Curiously, it makes Berlin want to purr. He finds himself mesmerized by the way Palermo’s fingers ghost along his temples, brushing over the soft baby hairs there. How he traces the seams of his wounds, careful not to hurt him. His ministrations feel eerily like a lover’s touch, designed to delight and please. A soft tickling sensation that manages to distract his tortured mind from the anguish – albeit only briefly. 

Because despite Palermo’s best efforts, each shard he proceeds to pull from his skin results in a sharp ache, unimaginable in nature. It takes everything in him to resist the urge to reach out and fist his hand in Palermo’s collar, to pull and wring and twist until his pretty little neck snaps. 

Berlin takes a deep breath. He has always been good at compartmentalizing his feelings –what little he has. Over the years, he has become well-versed in suppressing his pain, pushing it aside until it is nothing but an afterthought. So this shouldn't be any different.

It’s this damned silence, he thinks. It’s ringing in his ears, unbearably loud and unforgiving. It robs him off his very essence, hollowing him out and turning him into an empty shell. A vessel for wretchedness. 

It drives him mad. 

Berlin needs a distraction. He needs something— 

“Stockholm,” he says, breaking the silence. _Conquering_ it. “Did you ever get a chance to see the _Tournesols_ in Amsterdam?” 

“What? I – no,” she says, taken aback. “I’ve never seen them. I like Van Gogh though.” 

Berlin hums approvingly. 

“Palermo and I went to Amsterdam once. To see them,” he explains. “Absolutely stunning. There’s something _inspiring_ about the tragedy of an artist spiraling into madness. It just makes everything rawer, more honest. Some people say that his paintings actually improved once he cut off his own ear.” 

He laughs, the sound dry and self-depreciating. 

“Who knows, maybe being blind will make me a better artist, hmm?” 

His nonsensical ramblings – because that’s what they are. Berlin is painfully aware of that – are interrupted when Palermo drags a shard of glass out of the inner corner of his eye. Berlin imagines that this must be what it feels like to be struck by lightning. A hot-white current thrumming through his veins, flicking his nerve endings and driving him towards the brink of unconsciousness. 

Berlin flinches. Clamps down on the primordial urge to lash out. To escape from this torture chamber and lock himself away inside a darkened room, a wounded animal crawling off to die. 

“These cuts are pretty deep,” Palermo says in a mournful tone. His thumb brushes along Berlin’s cheekbone, the touch gentle – meant to soothe. It helps. “They’ll take a while to heal.” 

Berlin twists his lips into a pout. 

“Does that mean I’m no longer handsome?” 

“Nothing could diminish your beauty, _mi cariño_.” 

Berlin chuckles, mollified by his reply. It’s enough to divert his attention for the time being, enough to stave off the screaming silence that settles over them like a thick blanket, hot and stifling. But this time, he perseveres. And truthfully, aside from the excruciating pain that makes him want to tear off his own face, the whole experience is strangely relaxing. 

As with so many things in life, Berlin is able to find beauty in this cruel torment. It is liberating to dwell in darkness, to embrace this personalized purgatory. To – consciously, _willfully_ – turn his back on sight and vision and _art_ , and rely on his other senses instead. There’s comfort to be found in the soft rustling of clothes whenever Stockholm leans in to wipe the blood off his face. Palermo’s deep breaths, a soothing symphony. 

And, of course, the hollow echo of glass hitting the floor. Shard after shard after shard, an ever-growing pile of pain at their feet... 

“We could use the gold,” Berlin says, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “What do you think, Palermo? Fill the scrapes up with molten gold like a Japanese vase?” 

There’s no reply. Rationally, he knows that Palermo must be too absorbed in his work to pay any attention to his disjointed ramblings. And yet, Berlin experiences a pang of annoyance. He wants Palermo’s undivided attention. Wants to moan and whine like a petulant child until Palermo cards his fingers through his hair, telling him _I'm here_ and _I'll never leave you_.

He doesn’t. 

He’s not Tokyo, after all. If Palermo isn’t going to entertain him, then he’ll simply divert his attention somewhere else. There’s always Stockholm. Granted, she isn’t nearly as witty or stimulating as Palermo, but Berlin is in need of an audience and so she’ll have to do. 

What’s that delightful saying – beggars can’t be choosers? 

“Have you ever heard of _kintsugi_ , Stockholm?” He says, rolling the word around his tongue as if it’s something sacrosanct, a religious experience. “It’s not so much a form of art as a philosophy. The Japanese believe in embracing flaws and imperfections. Instead of covering them up like a shameful secret, they highlight the chinks by filling them with powdered gold.” 

“I don’t think we have enough gold to cover all your flaws.” 

Berlin snorts at her reply. Despite himself, he’s amused by her daring. Who would have thought that Denver’s woman was a feisty little thing? All sharp claws and tongue-in-cheek. How delectable! 

“Stockholm,” Palermo snaps, his voice tight. “Go and help Nairobi with the hostages.”

His tone gives Berlin pause. He is conversant in Palermo’s moods. Has made a game of reading him, of naming and cataloguing every flicker of emotion that flashes across his face. He has seen it all: anger and hurt and pain and – his favorite by far – mischief. A joie de vivre that marks Palermo as his kin. His equal. 

But right now, Berlin finds it impossible to tell what’s bothering him. If Palermo’s sudden bout of irritation is brought about by Stockholm’s teasing remark, or by the fact that Berlin allowed it. Whatever it may be, it rattled him enough to dismiss her without so much as a by-your-leave, and Berlin finds himself mulling over this odd exchange even as Stockholm’s footsteps fade into the distance. 

Palermo couldn't be jealous, could he?

“That’s it,” Palermo says after another moment of strained silence. “All done. You’ll be just fine, _mi querido_.” 

Palermo guides him into a sitting position, slowly, gently. His hand lingers on his shoulder, the warmth of his touch seeping through Berlin's clothes. Burning him, _branding_ him. 

“I’ll get a cane or something.” 

“Wait,” Berlin says, and Palermo stills. The air changes, sizzles with expectancy. It’s tentative – almost hopeful – and Berlin wishes that he could see the look on his friend’s face right now. The wide eyes and parted lips, the concern etched onto every line.

Slowly, Berlin reaches out until his fingertips connect with Palermo’s face. He lets his thumbs trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones, pinkies spanning out to feel the heated skin of his cheeks. Palermo must be blushing, he thinks. So soft and warm. 

There’s the flutter of lashes against the back of his hands when he ventures too close to his eyes, as soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wings. A sharp inhale of breath pierces the silence, a desperate little thing born of longing. 

It’s strange. Berlin has been married five times, and yet this is the most intimate thing he has ever experienced. To feel Palermo beneath his fingertips, so fragile and delicate, brimming with life. 

His touch falters when his fingers come across the moisture on Palermo’s cheeks. Wet tracks leading down to the curve of his chin. _Tears._ Palermo is crying, and it’s then that Berlin realizes that there’s more than sound and smell and touch. 

There’s also taste. 

He leans in and presses his lips against Palermo’s cheek, tongue flicking out to taste the salty lines of his tears. Palermo moans and it’s the most beautiful sound Berlin has ever heard. 

He wants to hear it again. 

If his world has truly been reduced to this, then he might as well make the most of it. He’ll turn it into a symphony of his own making. He’ll fill the emptiness with the heat of Palermo’s skin beneath his searching hands. He’ll drown the silence out with Palermo’s soft mewls and gasps and whimpers. He’ll chase the darkness away until there’s nothing left but _Palermo Palermo Palermo_. 

Until there’s nothing left but _Martín_. 

He lets his lips trail over Palermo’s cheek, lower and lower until he catches the corner of his mouth in a chaste kiss. It’s just a peck, really. Something innocent and virginal, something _sacred_. But Palermo – wild and intense, impossible to subdue – turns his head and nips his bottom lip, demanding more more _more_. 

(Palermo is an insatiable thing, but Berlin is a generous lover.)

Berlin swallows each of his moans. Takes them deep inside of him, allowing them to nest in the dark crevices of his heart. He’ll safeguard them. Nurture them until they take roots and cultivate them like the rarest of wildflowers. 

Palermo pulls away all too soon, panting against his lips. 

It’s truly a crime, Berlin thinks. An unspeakable injustice, a cruel mockery. To be denied the sight of Palermo in that very moment. He can only imagine the flushed face, the blown pupils. His hair a disheveled mess – courtesy of Berlin’s bruising grip, his fingers twisting and tugging to pull Palermo closer and closer still. 

(If anything, this should have been the last thing he’ll ever see. Not Gandia’s bloodthirsty grin as he points his gun in Berlin’s direction, but Palermo. His face – beaming back at him, eyes shining with mirth, tongue poking against the chip in his teeth. Berlin can’t imagine a more worthy afterimage.) 

“Is this because you’ve lost control?” Palermo asks. He sounds deliciously out of breath. “Because you need something to be yours? Something you can control?” 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No,” Palermo says – without hesitation, without doubt. He leans in again, hands cupping Berlin’s cheeks to hold him in place. As though he’s afraid that Berlin’ll run, that Palermo’ll lose him. 

“What do you need, huh? This?” Palermo presses an open-mouthed kiss against the corner of his lips, wet and teasing. “Or this?” 

He can feel Palermo’s hands trail over his chest and down to his abdomen, his nails scratching against the roughened material of his jumpsuit. His touch lingers, _caresses_ , and something trills inside Berlin’s chest. How he’d love for this to continue. To follow where Palermo’ll lead, _blindly_. 

But unfortunately, this is neither the right time nor the right place for this. When the time comes (because it is a _when_ , not an _if_ ), Berlin wants to give as good as he’s got. He wants to see Palermo’s face when he falls apart. To see the love and adoration in his eyes. 

One day.

“Oh, Martín.” He throws his head back and laughs, amused. “Would you really take advantage of me like that?” 

“You know I’d make it worth your while.” 

Berlin smirks. He reaches out, his fingers tugging at the strands of hair at the nape of Palermo’s neck until he sighs and keens in pleasure. Berlin pulls him close and presses a kiss against his forehead. It’s a sign of his gratitude, a silent benediction. 

A promise. 

“Show me what you’ve been up to while I was occupied with Gandia,” he says, sliding his hand down Palermo’s arm to clasp the comma of his elbow. For now, Palermo’ll be his trusted guide, his eyes in the dark places. The one he trusts above all others. 

“Si señor,” Palermo says in a mock-salute and Berlin finds himself laughing at his playful antics. But oh, he thinks almost reverently, his Palermo is made of pure light. Bright and brimming, pouring forth radiance. A beacon, thwarting the darkness in his life. 

Berlin doesn’t know what he’d do without Palermo. Without Martín. 

He prays he won’t ever have to find out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Puh, this took me much longer to write than I'd expected, mainly because of Palermo. I couldn't quite decide how he'd react to seeing Berlin hurt, but I think it worked out well enough. That being said, let me know what you think? Kudos and comments are my lifeblood.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com). Come say hi.


End file.
